Counting My Blessings
by Aleine Skyfire
Summary: "You're worried, aren't you? About this whole mess, I mean."/"I believe it would be more accurate to say that I am... concerned."/"Likewise." ...A little vignette that may or may not end up in my future novel "Merged."


**Author's Note:**

This hit me out of the blue. It's a possible scene for my future novel _Merged _(check www dot studysherlockiana dot blogspot dot com, and click on the post of that name). _Merged _is an alternate reality to my on-site fic _A Time to Heal_—and shadowy criminal genius Rick Stirling _will _be one of the main players in the story.

Hope you enjoy!

**Disclaimer:** The song "Counting My Blessings" belongs to Irving Berlin. Sherlock Holmes belongs to the public domain (which is only right, I think). Kathleen Stewart (Duran) belongs to me, though she _can_ be used with permission.

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><p><em>© 2011 by Aleine Skyfire.<em>

_All rights reserved._

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><p><strong>==Counting My Blessings==<strong>

**Summer 1890: 221B Baker Street**

With an explosive sigh, Kathleen Stewart flung back the covers and threw on her robe—no, dressing gown. Reading and writing about the Victorian Era was one thing, but actually _living_ it? She still found that a challenge from day to day, and she had been here for weeks now.

And just now, she was far too awake to sleep, despite the fact that it was nearly midnight. Grabbing her iPad, she noiselessly made her way downstairs to the sitting room. Maybe she could do some research from Sherlock's case files—he'd given her permission, on the condition that she would be careful and return everything exactly the way she found it. No problem.

Still on the stairs, she turned on her machine and made a mental note to recharge it in the morning. Thank goodness for solar chargers.

She opened the sitting room door and stopped short when she saw Sherlock Holmes standing before one of the windows. "Come in," he murmured, not turning.

"I… don't have to… I'll just go back upstairs. Sorry to disturb you."

"It's quite all right, truly."

"If you're sure…" Kathleen took one tentative step into the room. "I guess we're in the same boat—not sleepy."

"You _guess_?" There was faint disapproval in the tone.

She sighed. "I _suppose_. Don't be so picky—you know that's not what I meant." She winced. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have snapped at you like that."

He turned halfway around. "The inability to sleep can induce irritability."

She took several steps forward and collapsed onto the settee. "You're worried, aren't you? About this whole mess, I mean."

"I believe it would be more accurate to say that I am... concerned."

She nodded. "Likewise." She set her iPad aside and scrubbed her face with the back of her hand. "Probably why I can't sleep. I just... argh, Stirling has me totally on edge, especially now that we know he's hooked up with Moriarty. That... scares me more than a little."

"Mmm."

He was such an introvert. Kathleen couldn't help but be amazed at the way they were so similar and yet so completely different. She was every bit as intelligent as he, and every bit as experienced (if not perhaps moreso, considering her time in Afghanistan). She could just as easily deduce facts about a person as he could. But where she all but wore her heart on her sleeve, he guarded his heart jealously.

She _knew _he felt deeply—she'd seen those "cracks in the marble," to borrow Jeremy Brett's words. But she couldn't get any further than that. And she _wanted _to.

"Surely you have some method of dispelling your own restlessness," he said suddenly.

"Why do you say that?" she smiled bemusedly.

"You strike as the sort that would."

She gave a quiet laugh. "Sort of. I haven't used it in a long time—not sure why."

"Do tell."

She gave him a wry look. "I got it from a song."

He looked away sardonically. "I might have known."

She laughed again—it had not been long since her arrival at Baker Street before John had dubbed her a songbird. Her tongue-in-cheek response had been the hymn "How Can I Keep from Singing?" She drew her knees up and hugged them to her chest.

_When I'm worried and I can't sleep_

_I count my blessings instead of sheep_

_And I'll fall asleep_

_Counting my blessings_

He turned fully around to watch her. With his figure backlit by the moonlight, she couldn't read his expression, but she got the feeling that he was smiling, ever-so-slightly.

_When my bankroll is getting small_

_I think of when I had none at all_

_And I'll fall asleep_

_Counting my blessings_

He moved away from the window and settled into his armchair. "You're very much like Watson, do you know that?"

She felt her cheeks go warm. "I take that as a very high compliment."

"Please do. That... sounded very much like Watson."

She cocked her head. "I gue—_suppose_—it did."

He chuckled softly. "Now will you follow your own advice?"

"Will you?"

"Perhaps."

"I will if you will."

He stretched. "Possibly."

She stood. "I'll leave you to it, then." She paused at the doorway. "Mr. Holmes?"

"Yes?"

"May I ask a personal question?"

"You may, though I do not promise I'll answer."

She nodded slowly. "In the stories... you're portrayed a chivalrous gentleman, but one who rather... dislikes... my sex."

He straightened in his seat.

She bit her lip briefly before continuing—the issue had been bothering her for a while now. "Does that... does that include me?"

He was silent for a moment only. "My dear lady... I believe you can deduce that for yourself."

There it was, that introversive nature again. Holy cow, he was good at dodging. Sighing frustratedly, she cast her mind back over the past few weeks and considered all the interaction she'd had with him. His smile, his laugh, the time he played his violin to a song she was singing, the way they fed off each other as they worked on cases...

She had to smile. "Right then. Thanks, Sherlock." She left the room and climbed back up the stairs, but stopped midway.

He _liked _her. The only women in his adult life that he had ever liked were Mrs. Hudson, Mary Watson... and Irene Norton? And now she was added to that list...

She closed her eyes and rested her head against the wall. She wouldn't let herself fall for him—she _wouldn't_. He would never go for a romance, and she had her own life to live back in her own time, anyway.

Right. She could tell herself that 'til Doomsday.

The fact was that the damage was already done. He'd been her hero all her life, as well as her fangirl crush at one time—that wasn't something to be easily disregarded. _Sherlock, what have you __**done **__to me?_

That wasn't fair. It wasn't _his _fault. It was hers, and she had to deal with it. They'd pool their resources and brainpower, beat Stirling and Moriarty, and then Kathleen would return to her own century and leave Sherlock Holmes to his.

If only life were that simple.

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

I really came up with this just now, typed it out, and posted it up— completely rough and unedited. I guess I wanted to see what y'all thought.

In defense of the one-sided Holmes/OC, there are a lot of fangirls out there who'd love to be romantically involved with Sherlock Holmes. I know _I _have my moments. And like the story said, Sherlock is not only Kathleen's hero but also her onetime fangirl-crush. Plus, the more passionate a nature you have, the more serious a "crush" can be. Kathleen can balance her feelings well enough in the daytime when she's busy, but when it's night and her brain works overtime (and rather loudly, to boot)... That kind of thing bothers you more, you know?

Oh yeah, one more thing: though Sherlock and Kathleen are younger than they are in ATtH, they're still not _that_ young. Both are 32, and both have spent 13 years as private detectives.

Anyway, I really hope you enjoyed it, or at least that you didn't consider it a waste of time. I'll probably post more idea-scenes for _Merged _in the future.

_**Please review!**_


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